


Après BBC Sherlock Season 4 [Extra]

by esoemp



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff and Angst, References to Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9685283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoemp/pseuds/esoemp
Summary: This is just my fluffy angst I wrote a few weeks ago after the show ended. I was not happy. And neither was Samantha:“But then they just…ENDED it!!!” Samantha moaned, swinging another swipe in the direction of his derrière. Sherlock had tensed up involuntarily. Normally it was easier to relax and let the blows hit where they may because it engendered a longer session. Sherlock could take a ridiculous amount of pain and his cock thoroughly enjoyed the challenge. And, given that Samantha was still a novice in the art of BDSM, he knew she probably didn't notice his…true enthusiasm to being whipped. She knew at the very least he enjoyed the sensation—Sherlock liked it very much.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/gifts).



Sherlock winced as several dishes collapsed into the sink without the usual aplomb Samantha gave to such endeavors, inciting a mixture of concern and annoyance on his part. He was focused on an experiment, and, while it may not have been going anywhere expedient at present, Sherlock felt Samantha’s customary care to prevent him from being distracted was unwarranted, and certainly unusual at best.

Samantha bent over the sink and looked into the bloody mess as though it might provide her answers to her dilemma and elicited a deep sigh.  _No answers to be found there, eh dear?_  Sherlock thought with wry amusement. At first.

Sherlock glanced down at his search bar, taking note of where he’d left off, opting to ignore whatever was going on in the kitchen unless it became readily apparent it required his attention. Upon hearing Samantha grumble at the contents of coffee cup—apparently human—Sherlock felt the strange urge to ask Samantha what was the matter.

“Women don’t like to be ‘fixed’ Sherlock,” John’s voice rang in his head, before Sherlock shook it off like so much dust. “You mustn’t try to fix them, even if you think they can be fixed…” John’s voice continued with seriousness. But Samantha was different from most women. Samantha was desperate to have her idol (Sherlock) explain things to her, assure her, and help her. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Samantha, my love,” he added the endearment as a first line of defense as he gauged her reaction. When Samantha stopped her machinations at the sink he swallowed hard before continuing, “Is something the matter?”

Samantha’s gaze remained in the sink. Her whole body tensed and she just seemed to stare into…nothingness, Sherlock imagined. He’d never seen his Samantha in such a state.

“I just don’t understand,” she mumbled, almost inaudibly. A strange sense of loss played over her face and it tugged on whatever heartstrings she’d installed in Sherlock since they’d met. Sherlock certainly hadn’t felt that same sort of pull before; obviously she’d been the one to erect them.

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his laptop, an expression of concern marring his otherwise schooled features. It was better to come across as apologetic, he reasoned, in case Samantha was actually angry at  _him_. It occurred to Sherlock she had every reason to be angry with him, ALL THE TIME, given his inability to recognize slights and, all in all, be “a self-absorbed prick”, as John had called him frequently. But Samantha was different. Samantha gave Sherlock the benefit of the doubt, and then some, because she loved and adored him. Anything that hurt Samantha was of the utmost importance to him. Sherlock vowed that if it were not he, or John, who were making her feel this way, the perpetrator would have to be dealt with—quickly and with the maximum amount of hostility.

Before Sherlock could question Samantha some more about who had wronged her Samantha glared at him—GLARED at him—before resuming her machinations scrubbing the sink. She seemed to be trying to scrub away her anger and frustration at the caked blood against the chrome, putting way too much energy into the process as far as Sherlock was concerned. Samantha panted and gritted her teeth as though in erasing such stains she could remove them from her mind, but to no avail. Eventually she ran out of coverage.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. “Is there,” he began weakly, “something I can do?”

Again Samantha paused, then tossed her cleaning gloves into the bucket she’d reserved for cleaning only the most horrendous messes. She leveled her eyes with Sherlock’s then looked away.

“It’s fine,” she said flatly, as she settled the cleaning supplies in the closet, before adding, “are you coming over tonight?”

Sherlock, much to his surprise, and for the first time in his life, did  _not_  want to go over to Samantha’s. After all, if she decided to kill him, where would John be? However, telling Samantha he was unwilling to go would have been too obvious. Samantha knew he had no plans, no case, and therefore nothing that would have prevented him from visiting her flat. He swallowed again. Hard.

“Yes, I thought I would,” he began, irritated at the shakiness of his voice, “unless you’d rather I didn’t…” He added that last bit, sinking his last hopes on her assurance that she might not want his company tonight; that perhaps she had some…he wasn’t sure—journaling or whatever it was she did when she was riled up in thus a way.

Samantha leveled his gaze before looking away. “No. It’s fine. I…” she paused ominously, “I want you to.”

Sherlock felt his heart sink. He liked it when Samantha would punish him. But that was when he actually  _did_  something. The idea of Samantha taking her obvious anger out on him without him being the cause was…well it was ludicrous. And yet, that seemed exactly what was to be happening now. Sherlock turned his attention back to his laptop as though to show his obvious distraction for the moment. “Alright, well,” he began, before correcting his octave to something more nonchalant, “I will see you at 7.”

Samantha nodded, grabbed her carryall, and then exited the flat.

Sherlock looked up after she was gone. What had he done wrong? Briefly he went through the list and came up empty. Samantha was clearly agitated, but even she wasn’t prone to passive aggressive behavior. So what could it be?

 

Sherlock actually squealed—SQUEALED—his disapproval after the second strike of the leather riding crop Samantha had taken to using to “teach” him the proper way of behaving around normal human beings. It was mortifying. Being punished for doing something wrong was one thing…

“But then they just…ENDED it!!!” Samantha moaned, swinging another swipe in the direction of his derrière. Sherlock had tensed up involuntarily. Normally it was easier to relax and let the blows hit where they may because it engendered a longer session. Sherlock could take a ridiculous amount of pain and his cock thoroughly enjoyed the challenge. And, given that Samantha was still a novice in the art of BDSM, he knew she probably didn't notice his…true enthusiasm to being whipped. She knew at the very least he enjoyed the sensation—Sherlock liked it very much.

The strike of leather upon his backside and thighs was exquisite—especially since it was Samantha who delivered the blows—and the aftercare was even more so. Samantha might swat until he begged her to stop, but then the touch of her fingers on his arse, rubbing in the ointment that would make the pain go away faster, was pure heaven on his throbbing skin. And of course there was the intercourse that normally followed the “torture”, which would normally have come (no pun intended) any minute now. But Samantha was still fuming…

“SEVEN. YEARS. Sherlock,” was what she screamed at him, before she leveled another blow that came dangerously close to his scrotum and sent a shock of alarm through his limbic system. “Seven. Years,” she added for emphasis, before she began to pace the room again. Still she had not explained the reasoning or object of her displeasure.

Sherlock shifted in his position, the cuffs clanking against the chains around his wrists and ankles. His thighs were trembling already, though he knew it wasn’t from pain. He was ready to be released. Samantha was babbling with incoherence he was unaccustomed to, and the idea of fucking her out of this strop she was having was becoming more appealing by the minute. There was just such a place, at least as John would have described it, where logic fell apart and fucking was the answer. At the time John had suggested such an idea Sherlock had laughed. Samantha—his Samantha—was a very reasonable creature. The idea she, of all people, would need to be “fucked into coherency” was just ridiculous. But presently, this seemed to be the case.

“Samantha,” Sherlock began again before adding, “ _ma cherie_ …what…what happened over these seven years?” All sorts of images paraded around his mind—Samantha being stalked, bullied, or worse…

Samantha drew up to her full stature, her breasts still heaving against the corset she so often wore for one of these “scenes”, as she described them. She took a deep breath and turned to Sherlock with the most forlorn expression. Sherlock felt his heart clench in apprehension and sympathy. “Well...” Samantha began hesitantly before wiping a sweat drenched lock of hair out of her eyes, “Every…every season they gave me more…” Sherlock’s intake of breath was nearly audible but he hoped with all his might it was not going to make her stop. “Every week there was Esteban,” she murmured before she glanced away sorrowfully, “And Rico.”

“Who the fuck are Estaban and Rico!?!?!” demanded Sherlock suddenly, completely losing control of his calm and struggling against his chains. “I swear I will—”

Samantha tittered for a moment, seeming to comprehend what Sherlock must be thinking, that perhaps these men were somehow special to her in  _other_  ways. Sherlock wondered how he could have been so stupid. Samantha was a goddess. And even if Samantha were not herself, her alter Angela had an amazing ability to draw worshippers from all walks of life. The idea Samantha would have a couple of followers in the last several weeks was not impossible, but the idea Samantha, or even Angela, would have entertained any ideas about choosing them over him was just plain silly. Sherlock was fully aware of the devotion Samantha had for him and he did not take it for granted. Suddenly her eyes seemed to clear and grow cloudy again. Samantha groaned and sank down to her heels in frustration.

“ _La Mysterie de la Romance!_ ” Samantha cried into her hands before adding in frustration, “SURELY even  _you’ve_  heard of  _that_ , Sherlock?”

Sherlock blanched but couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. It sounded as though Samantha was talking about…

“A novella? You know, Sherlock? THE NOVELLA? About Esteban, the handsome detective and his sidekick, Rico?” Samantha sobbed.

If not for the abhorrent realization Samantha might be taking out her frustrations on him because of a mystery TV drama Sherlock might have had a nice day. He had a variety of experiments at the flat. He could have taken Samantha out to dinner…so many possibilities. But this…

“Samantha,” Sherlock proceeded carefully, “why…why are you upset about a television programme?” He winced, hoping he hadn’t crossed a line that would render him unable to function physically in the next week.

Samantha sniffed, and cast her tear filled eyes in his direction. “Because…it’s…” then she groaned, “it’s….” She sobbed, “It’s…OVER!!!”

Fortunately Samantha was unable to see Sherlock roll his eyes as she was too busy wailing into her leather gloves. He took another deep breath before pursuing gamely, “And…Samantha, my love,” he added again cautiously, “shows end all the time. Why was this one so important?”

His only response was an extenuated wail from Samantha. “Because,” she sobbed uncontrollably, “this one was…different.” Samantha swallowed and tried harder with a nod from Sherlock to let her know she had his full attention. “Estaban and Rico  _loved_  each other.”

“What?” Sherlock blurted before he could stop himself. Samantha jerked her head back up to look at his eyes, studying him…

“I mean, they  _LOVED_  one another, Sherlock!!!” Came Samantha’s cry of frustration. “They were partners but…but…it was  _SO MUCH MORE_!”

Her entire body shook with grief. And suddenly, a realization dawned on Sherlock. “The show ended…”he began tentatively, “with…that…love unrealized?”

Samantha sniffed and gazed at him, almost in awe. “Yes,” she whispered. She averted her eyes and added, “for seven years I watched. It was such a good story, Sherlock.” She smiled warmly as the tears rolled down her cheeks, “There was action, drama, intrigue…clever and handsome protagonists…it was everything you could want from a show…but then…” she choked back another sob. “Then there was season 4…and a finale.” This last bit she added darkly, as though it were a finale in every sense of the word. Which was ridiculous. Had all the actors died? Of course, Sherlock knew with Samantha that wasn’t the point. Samantha was seeing with her heart what may never last for her and Sherlock.

“I’m…I’m so sorry,  _ma cherie_ ,” Sherlock offered encouragingly, shuffling a bit trying to gain some semblance of composure in his current condition.

Samantha nodded gratefully and stared at the floor.

Sherlock put aside his frustration and straightened his back. “Samantha,” he ventured bravely, “I would like you to strike my arse for every tear you have shed and believe you will shed for Estaban and Rico.”

Samantha looked up dumbfounded with something like alarm in her eyes. “Sherlock,” she began, but he interrupted her.

“It is,” he swallowed back the bile threatening to creep into his throat at his next words, “the only way we can...do justice…for their love.” He managed to get the last sentence out as though he were really serious. If he’d learned anything since obtaining a significant other, making compromises with his dignity was alright—as long as it was for Samantha. Or John, who he loved dearly—though would never admit it so extravagantly as he did with this woman. He and John had an understanding that did not require words of love to cement the depth of their relationship. Already Sherlock could hear John chiding him for being such a pushover with Samantha now. Sherlock pushed that idea out of his mind and stretched his back, a clear invitation he was ready for Samantha’s punishment.

Samantha stood up on her wobbly stilettos—she still wasn’t accustomed to wearing them—and shakily made her way across the room to Sherlock. “Are…are you sure?” she managed to ask weakly. Sherlock nodded and she took a few deep breaths before he heard the arc of the riding crop sear through the air, landing on his buttocks in now precise strikes.

It turned out Samantha  _really_  loved that show. And seemed to think for all the world she would shed an  _ABUNDANCE_  of tears for Estaban and Rico and their tragic love. It didn’t strike Samantha as odd or inopportune for each of these protagonists to be men. In Samantha’s eyes, love was love. And the devotion each of these characters showed for one another demonstrated the profound depth of their romantic feelings for one another. Fortunately for the bruises all over Sherlock’s arse, Samantha had been reading up on aftercare and this was the perfect opportunity to provide Sherlock with an in depth demonstration. Although he had no interest in actually watching the show—detective programmes always infuriated him with the onslaught of obvious deductions—Sherlock couldn’t help feeling a bit sympathetic to the two protagonists. And hoped, at least for Samantha’s sake, they would see their love realized.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little short fic! My friend Wendy said I should channel my frustrations into it and offer some meta humor. 
> 
> "La Mysterie de la Romance" translates from French to "Mystery of the Lovesong"


End file.
